The young Americans greeted the new-comer cordially.  A waiter placed a chair for him, and took his hat.  Arthur Singleton was an American, though he had lived abroad so long as to have lost his identity with any particular city or state of his native land.  He had been an attache of the American embassy at London for many years.  Administrations changed and ambassadors came and went, but Singleton was never molested.  It was said that he kept his position on the score of his wide acquaintance; he knew every one, and he was a great peddler of gossip, particularly about people in high station.

The children of Hilton Claiborne were not to be overlooked.  He would impress himself upon them, as was his way; for he was sincerely social by instinct, and would go far to do a kindness for people he really liked.

“Ah me!  You have arrived opportunely, Miss Claiborne.  There’s mystery in the air—­the great Stroebel is here—­under this very roof and in a dreadfully bad humor.  He is a dangerous man—­a very dangerous man, but failing fast.  Poor Austria!  Count Ferdinand von Stroebel can have no successor—­he’s only a sort of holdover from the nineteenth century, and with him and his Emperor out of the way—­what?  For my part I see only dark days ahead;” and he concluded with a little sigh that implied crumbling thrones and falling dynasties.

“We met him in Vienna,” said Shirley Claiborne, “when father was there before the Ecuador Claims Commission.  He struck me as being a delightful old grizzly bear.”

“He will have his place in history; he is a statesman of the old blood and iron school; he is the peer of Bismarck, and some things he has done.  He holds more secrets than any other man in Europe—­and you may be quite sure that they will die with him.  He will leave no memoirs to be poked over by his enemies—­no post-mortem confidences from him!”

The reader of the Neue Freie Presse, preparing to leave his table, tore from the newspaper an article that seemed to have attracted him, placed it in his card-case, and walked toward the door.  The eyes of Arthur Singleton lighted in recognition, and the attache, muttering an apology to the Claibornes, addressed the young gentleman cordially.

“Why, Armitage, of all men!” and he rose, still facing the Claibornes, with an air of embracing the young Americans in his greetings.  He never liked to lose an auditor; and he would, in no circumstances, miss a chance to display the wide circumference of his acquaintance.

“Shirley—­Miss Claiborne—­allow me to present Mr. Armitage.”  The young army officer and Armitage then shook hands, and the three men stood for a moment, detained, it seemed, by the old attache, who had no engagement for the next hour or two and resented the idea of being left alone.

“One always meets Armitage!” declared Singleton.  “He knows our America as well as we do—­and very well indeed—­for an Englishman.”